


Coccinelle enregistre Chat Noir

by im_adopted



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Comedy, Death, Eventual Smut, F/M, Instead of being a pig, It's sort of a slow burn, Marinette is very confident, OOC Nathalie sort of, Penelope AU, Some dialogue is taken but I do not condone plagiarism, Very relative to the Penelope movie, Will take a while to write, adrien is a cat, explicit - Freeform, mature - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 12:50:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_adopted/pseuds/im_adopted
Summary: Penelope AU: Adrien is born into disappointment, hair and a very slow burn romance. Who knew liars could turn out on top sometimes?Spoilers for the Penelope story line, also I 100% do not take credit for Mark Palansky and Leslie Caveny's amazing work in creating Penelope.





	Coccinelle enregistre Chat Noir

**Author's Note:**

> Marinette takes a while to come into it, but please be patient.

My parents were born into the good life. Old money, blue blooded, society sweethearts.

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

“We’ll be happy with whatever we get.”

Having played host to kings and queens and other powers that be, they were used to gracing the pages of the society columns. So they welcomed the attention… on what was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. 

“Darling, he’s still beautiful. Please, just look at him.”

“He’s hideous! Can’t you see those– those things looking at us!”

But local legend had it that a curse was put on the Beaulieu family when my great, great, great, great grandmother decided to go against the town witch to look for the spell for immortality, as she was a model simply looking for a way to stay gorgeous forever. And in her attempts of finding this so-called immortality spell, she killed the witch’s beautiful black cat. 

That night, the witch showed up to the estate and scattered about the ashes of her cat and commanded that the next Beaulieu son be born with the tail, eyes and ears of a cat. And only when one of your own kind claims this son as their own ‘till death do they part’ will the curse be broken. Time passed, and as luck would have it, the next five Beaulieu brides gave birth to all daughters…

Who mothered all daughters…

Who mothered all daughters…

Who mothered all daughters…

Who mothered all daughters. 

Finally, born to Michael Leonard Reyes and Adalie Richelle Reyes… a son. 

Over a century of worry for nothing. 

Of course, what they didn’t know then was that Adalie hadn’t actually given birth to a Reyes, she had given birth to… a Richards. 

Which means that the first born Beaulieu son, after marrying into the Comtois, LeGrand, Pelletier, Mercier and Reyes, is me.

Adrien Agreste. Grandson of great, great, great, great grandmother Beaulieu. The first son, after six generations of waiting.

 

 

“Adrikins. Dear, sweet Adrikins. I’d never give anything in my wardrobe to anyone. That is, until I met you.”

“It’s gotta be her. Listen to the way she talks about her clothes.”

“For you, I’d give you everything in my wardrobe. Even my Louis Vuitton stilettos.”

“Holy shit– Louis Vuitton?!” 

“Shush!”

“Even more so, Adrien, I’m just like you. I’ve felt imprisoned most of my life–,”

“Come along, poppet, don’t say things like that.”

“Shut up, Daddy! I’m trying to sound philosophic!”

“Oh, my apologies, princess.”

This is exactly what it’s been like for the last two years for poor Adrien Agreste, ladies making their way through his little room of poetry, leather couches and weird porcelain creatures – whose idea were those anyway? – but it always ended the same way.

“Really?” Adrien looks through the one-way mirror, his eyes landing on the blonde of the other side. “By what? Your good looks and your good name?”

“Exactly! I’m so glad you understand, my love.” Chloé flusters out, throwing her arms in front of her. Her father stands in the doorway, standing at attention as she swings her leg out to pace in front of the glass. 

“No one ever seems to be able to see past that,” Nathalie says from the kitchen, looking at the little monitor linked to the annexe.

Nino stands beside her, making quick work of a bag of crisps. “No one ever.”

Chloé stops her pacing, only to turn to the glass, hands behind her back and says with absolute certainty: “Dear, sweet Adrikins, curse or no curse, if I, an unimportant, humble richerthanhalfofthiscountry girl am more than my face and my name, well then, of course you must be more than yours? Please let me in?”

Nathalie stops and gapes at the monitor. “No, don’t!”

Adrien plops down from his seat next to the glass and strides down the steps, opening a secret door into the annexe that holds the pretty little blonde. Her father’s mouth drops open in silent horror whilst Chloé rambles on.

Adrien clears his throat and relishes in her slow act of realisation when she turns to look at him. “Afternoon, mon chéri.” 

“What…?” Chloé draws out, taking a few steps back. Her eyes are locked on his ears as they twitch, his tail as it sways side to side, his sharp eyes that follow every move she makes. “Help me! Help me! He’s a furry!”

“I’m about 100% sure that’s kink shame,” Adrien replies flippantly. “And I’m actually part cat, believe it or not.”

“Daddy! It has fangs!” Chloé shrieks and sprints past her father, directly out the large oak doors that extend out onto a long gravel drive way.

“’Twas a pleasure meeting you, sir, but I believe your visit has come to a close.” Adrien bows in a mock show of respect and turns foot to go back into his bedroom.  
Chloé’s father stills stands in the doorway, one, two, three seconds pass until he sighs through his nose and storms out after his daughter. His voice reverberates through the house as he says, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!”

Nathalie replies in kind with: “Actually, you signed a legal gag, so you really can’t say anything.”

There’s a halt in movement until he runs out the door and shouts, “I did, my daughter didn’t!”

“Get him, Nino!” Nathalie exclaims. Nino’s sneakers squeal on the polished wood floors as he chases after the man, repeating his dislike towards being treated like a dog.

Adrien shakes out his arms like he is about to audition before he exits his room and makes his way to the staircase in the centre of the house. His father stands at the bottom, hands linked behind his back, suit ironed immaculately, grim expression covering his face. “Why do you continue to do this, Adrien?”

Gabriel, Adrien’s father, has a very strict face and personality. Slicked back blonde almost grey hair, thick rimmed black glasses, tanned and lined skin, years of worry covering his face. He’s tall and slim, the body of a man that takes care of himself, and his eyes are a piercing grey that seem to look right through anybody he gives his attention to.

“I’m not the one who ran, father.” His son with enough pain that it makes Gabriel take a step back, as if struck.

“Adrien, sweetie,” Nathalie starts as she walks around the corner of the kitchen entry. “You shouldn’t have stepped out like that. Don’t startle the poor girls that come in here.”  
“I showed them my face, Nathalie.” He replies, leaning over the banister to look down at them both. 

For a second there’s silence, until Gabriel looks down. Nathalie mumbles an apology to Gabriel and steps away, searching for Nino. Adrien starts to walk down the stairs while watching his father take a seat on the bottom step.

“Father, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s my fault. If I had of asked for a better doctor when you were a baby maybe it would all be different. I could tell that Chloé might’ve been the one.”

“Father, she didn’t like me at all.” Adrien snorted, plopping down next to his father. “She only wanted our money.”

“No, she wasn’t. She just didn’t like your ears. Or eyes.” Gabriel looks up for a second, “…or tail.”

“But they’re all part of me, dad. They’re my ears, my eyes and my tail.” He curls his tail around to lay across his lap. It’s long, black and incredibly soft, and Adrien can’t help but stroke it as if it were an actual cat laying across his lap.

“No, they’re your great, great, great grandmothers–“

“You forgot another great in there.”

“They’re not yours, son. They belong to your great, great, great, great grandmother.” Gabriel sighs softly, shaking his head. “And I will not accept anything else.”

“Mum didn’t hate me.”

The comment is so offhanded that they both reel backward, one because he didn’t realise what he had said and the other because he was right. His wife hadn’t hated their son – she certainly hadn’t liked the extra appendages, but she didn’t love her son any less. 

“But you are still not those things, Adrien. You are you, and those…those things are your heritage, and it was your mother’s grandmother’s fault for having an affair.” 

“Uncle Louis isn’t a bad man, dad.”

“Well, he certainly isn’t a good one.”

“He gives me cake when I shed.”

“The point I’m trying to make here,” Gabriel grits out, trying to forget his nightmares of Adrien’s black cat hair cover every single one of his white jackets and white slacks and god forbid his white woollen vests. “Is that you are not your parts, so you aren’t you, you are trapped in there somewhere, behind all that hair.”

 

I had been reminded over the years that I was not the only victim of the curse. For starters, along with my birth came the knowledge of great Aunt Adalie’s affair. Even so, no one suffered more than my poor father. The modelling that started generations ago actually travelled through my family, as everyone was beautiful in their own way, even more so for their generation’s picture of beauty.

Great, great, great, great grandmother Beaulieu, married as Comtois, had the hour glass desired in her time, as well the voluminous hair that enabled it to all be piled high on her head. 

Great, great, great grandmother LeGrand had a chest small enough to pull off their flapper dresses, and had her hair cropped short to follow the trends. 

Great, great grandmother Pelletier luckily had dry skin, not too oily and had plump lips. She never shaved her eyebrows off, and left them to grow naturally and soon became an idol for beauty, being posted all over the city of Paris as the war raged on.

Great grandmother Mercier thrived in the 50s, where having the perfect hour glass body and voluptuous hips and thighs were often revered in her time period, and whilst she wasn’t born with them, she did anything she could to maintain the body that she appreciated and loved.

Grandmother Reyes was a born in the 70s, far later than any of the other females in my family tree. She continued the bloodline of beauty as she bowled people over in the early 90s, although she went through much more severe ordeals to remain the stunner of her time. Being skinny was being pretty, and so the odd meal was missed here and there to prove that she was the best.

And finally, my mother. She was beautiful in a classic way, proving that beauty far surpassed the surface. She never had to do anything extra, never skipped a meal or wore corsets to make herself more appealing. She was just herself, and that’s how my father became attracted to her. Unlike the rest of her family, she had me when she was 20, whereas the ones before her were more worried about their physique to have a child so soon.

But back to the point of all this, having a heritage in which every single child has grown to be a model, it hasn’t worked for me. For starters, I’m a cat, or at least part cat. 

Furthermore, about 15% of the world’s population is allergic to cats, and there is no way that I can interact with that many people if quite a few people in the world are allergic to, well, me. 

The fact that my entire family runs on modelling is great for anyone that isn’t me, because they get paid for looking pretty. But because I can’t continue the legacy, my father has  
suffered the most and is now one of the most prestigious fashion designers in France. This whole ordeal has been something fierce against him, and it just got worse after mum died.

 

 

I was ten when my mother got involved in a fatal accident that left no one alive. It was a car accident on a highway. She was driving a car with two teenagers in the backseat, one pregnant and going into the labour, the other the boyfriend trying to calm his partner. The girl screamed so loudly that my mother couldn’t help but turn to look and in that moment, a truck carrying 20 tonne worth of home appliances on its trailers turned to drive into the next lane and assumed that my mother would slow down to let them in.

That, however, did not happen, and the truck tipped and crushed the car with the trailer closest to the cab. The girl and the teenage boy died instantly, but my mother was unfortunately alive during the rest of the suffering, which saw the metal sheets covering the sides of the trailer ever so slowly slice their way through her midsection. She was alive until help arrived, and alive for the next five minutes until she finally finished bleeding out from the most severe cut to her femoral artery. 

All of this, from the moment the truck hit until she died, took 30 minutes. 

And it was all recorded on the dash cam in her car.

What with the emotional state my father was in, he believed the best way to save me from the trauma that I would grow into would be to just show me the video in which my mother slowly passed. Not a bad way to transition into adolescence. 

From then on, life wasn’t the same. I didn’t feel loved, and I certainly didn’t feel wanted. But that’s a story for a later date. 

For now, this is the story of how a girl from a family bakery managed to prove my father wrong, and show that not all thieves set out to steal riches, sometimes they set out to steal designer books too.


End file.
